The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  Ann was still basking in the remembered glow of their praise when she arrived home that evening, and even the prospect of a cold house and near-empty larder weren’t able to dim her spirits.

  “It’s me,” she called out as she came in. “Are you there?”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Milly responded, and there was something about her voice that put Ann’s nerves on edge. She hastened through the darkened sitting room and found her sister-in-law sitting at the kitchen table, still dressed in her work uniform, an untouched cup of tea at her elbow.

  “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong.”

  “I’ve had a letter from my brothers,” Milly said. “They want me to come and live with them in Canada.” Only then did Ann notice the airmail envelope left open on the table.

  She sank into the chair opposite Milly. “You haven’t seen them for ages. For years.”

  “The businesses they’ve opened are doing well, and . . . and there’d be work for me. They say that life is better in Canada. No rationing, no shortages. They—”

  “Better? What about the winters? They get feet and feet of snow. You hate the cold.”

  “They say it isn’t all that bad. Once you get used to it.”

  “How would you get there? It can’t be cheap to—”

  “They’ll send me a ticket.”

  “Oh. So you’re thinking about it.”

  Milly looked up, and only then did Ann see that she’d been crying. “I have, but I don’t know . . . I’d be leaving this house, and my life with Frank, too. And you. I’d be leaving you, and you’re my best friend in the world. What will happen if I go? How will you keep the house?”

  Ann knew what she must do. “You can’t make such a big decision based on what’ll happen to me. I’ll be fine. I will. This is a nice place, and I’m sure I can find a lodger without any trouble.”

  “What if the council gets wind of it? If anyone notices there’s only two women living in a house that’s meant for a whole family, you’ll be—”

  “Milly.” Ann took her friend’s hands in hers and squeezed them tight. “As long as I pay the rent on time I doubt they’ll care. And what’s the worst that can happen? They give me notice and I find somewhere else to live.”

  “But you’d have to leave your garden behind, and you love that garden.”

  “I do. But the plants aren’t chained down, are they? I can bring some of them along with me if ever I do move.”

  Milly was shaking her head. “It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t.”

  “Now you’re being silly. Let me ask you something: If it wasn’t for me, would you go?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I would . . .”

  “Then you should go. Of course I’ll miss you, but that’s what letters are for. And maybe I can save up and visit you one day. I’ve always wanted to see Niagara Falls and, well . . . there’s sure to be other lovely places to see.”

  “I’m scared,” Milly whispered.

  “I know. But it will be a fresh start for you. I really think you should do it.”

  They sat there for a few minutes, silently regarding one another, and at last Milly nodded.

  “When are you thinking, then?” Ann asked.

  “Dan and Des said it’s best to wait for summer. It won’t be such a shock that way, they said. Will that give you enough time?”

  “Loads. Now, what do you say to a spot of supper?”

  “I didn’t get started yet. Sorry about that. I opened the letter, and then . . .”

  “Not a bother. You sit there and drink your tea, if it hasn’t gone completely cold, and I’ll sort it out. Why don’t you turn on the wireless? That way we can hear the news when it comes on.”

  All through supper and afterward, listening to the Light Programme as they sat by the fire, Ann maintained a veneer of resolute good cheer. What else could she do? If she fell to pieces, Milly would change her mind and insist on staying. So she kept the conversation light and bright, in the process nearly boring them both to death with descriptions of Doris’s wedding plans, and never once did she let on that a part of her felt like weeping.

  Once Milly was gone, she would be alone, with no one to notice if she was sad, or sick, or struggling. She’d be on her own, with nothing but her own strength of will to sustain her. Never mind that it was already worn thin from nearly a decade of grief and strain and hunger and war.

  She would manage. She’d find a lodger and continue to pay the rent on time. She would manage, somehow, and spring would come, and her garden would grow green and bright. And she would survive.

  Chapter Five

  Miriam

  May 2, 1947

  She was ready.

  Her suit was perfection, its precisely fitted jacket and voluminous, calf-grazing skirt bringing to mind Monsieur Dior’s sensational new designs, but in a gentler, less aggressively chic way. Here in England, she knew, they were wary of the New Look, constrained as they were by their rationing and coupons, and she had no wish to antagonize anyone by reminding them of things they could not yet have.

  Her gloves were white, her shoes were shining, and her hat, an elegant oval of finely woven black straw, sat on her head just so. Her portfolio was filled with samples of her work, a reference from Maison Rébé, and, most precious of all, the letter of recommendation from Christian Dior.

  The morning after her arrival, exactly nine weeks ago, she had compiled a list of the best fashion designers in London. For this she had relied on Monsieur Dior’s suggestions, which she had supplemented with addresses from a copy of British Vogue. She had eaten a fortifying and quite disgusting breakfast of porridge and weak tea, had dressed in the garments she had prepared the night before, and had set out to conquer London.

  The first name on her list had been Lachasse. She’d been certain they would offer her a position on the spot, for her credentials were impeccable, her samples proved that she was capable of working at the highest level, and she had that coveted letter from Monsieur Dior.

  It had all counted for nothing.

  The woman who had answered the door, wearing a frock that any self-respecting Frenchwoman would have instantly consigned to the rubbish bin, had been impatient and irritable, and twice she’d asked Miriam to repeat herself. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. This is England, you know. You need to learn proper English.”

  Miriam’s nerves had got the better of her. She’d lost words that she ought to have known, she had begun to stammer, and altogether she had sounded like an utter fool.

  “We’re not looking for embroiderers,” the woman had finally said. “Best try your luck elsewhere.”

  Undeterred, she had proceeded to Hardy Amies on Savile Row, the second establishment on Monsieur Dior’s list. Miriam had gone to the staff entrance and asked to see the head of embroidery. The man at the door had told her they weren’t hiring.

  Her next stop had been at Charles Creed in Knightsbridge. This time she’d been ushered inside and instructed to wait for someone from the embroidery workroom. A woman had appeared after nearly a half hour, and it was evident, from her pinched expression and clipped words, that she was annoyed by the interruption. Before Miriam had finished introducing herself, the woman had cut her off.

  “Do you have any English training or experience? No? Then we’re not interested.”

  By the end of the day she had also been turned away from the workrooms of Victor Stiebel, Digby Morton, Peter Russell, Michael Sherard, and Bianca Mosca. No one had wanted an embroiderer. No one had cared to hear of her training and experience. No one had given her the chance to so much as mention her letter of reference from Monsieur Christian Dior.

  Miriam had scuttled back to her hotel room and had perched on the edge of her bed and had stared at nothing for hours. When the worst of her panic had subsided she had opened her little notebook, the one into which she had copied the list of designers Monsieur Dior had given her, together with addresses for their London workrooms. Only th
en had she noticed that two of its pages had been stuck together, and she had somehow managed to skip over the first name on the list.

  Norman Hartnell. The designer who, according to Monsieur Dior, had the best embroidery workroom in England.

  She had seen pictures of the gowns Monsieur Hartnell made for the English queen, the grand crinolines and softly serene day dresses that weren’t especially chic but suited her so well. Surely his premières would appreciate someone with her training and experience.

  It had been stupid and foolhardy to persevere after that deplorable woman at Lachasse had rejected her, and she had only compounded her stupidity by working her way through every name on her list but one. It had left her teetering at the edge of a precipice, and if she were to stumble . . .

  She would take a step back. Take the time to polish up her English, immerse herself in its awkward idioms and ridiculous grammar, and sand away the veneer of desperation that had tainted her brief conversations at every workroom she had visited that day.

  She would take some of the money Monsieur Dior had given her, and she would buy herself some time.

  Two days later she had moved to cheaper lodgings, a dismal little pension in Ealing that charged the same for a week as did the hotel for a single night, and then she had set about practicing her English. After breakfast each day she had gone to the Italian café near the Underground entrance, had bought a coffee—it was far nicer there than at the Lyons and A.B.C. cafés that seemed to be on every corner—and had eavesdropped on the other customers, writing down words she didn’t understand so she might look them up later. Most afternoons she had gone to the cinema, silently parroting the actors’ words under the cover of darkness, trying to make sense of the strange idioms they used.

  And everywhere she had gone, though it grated at her solitary soul, she had engaged people in conversation: the other women in the breakfast room at her pension, the man who sold newspapers on the corner, even the sweetly flirtatious waiter at the Italian café, though his English was worse than hers.

  It had taken her more than two months, but now she was ready. Today she would try again.

  Checking her A to Z to ensure she was heading in the right direction, Miriam set off for Mayfair, alighting at Bond Street station. Ten minutes later she turned onto Bruton Place, her heart pounding, her hands clammy beneath her gloves.

  It was easy to find the staff entrance to Hartnell, for a gleaming delivery lorry was parked about halfway along the mews, and a series of enormous white boxes were being loaded into its open back doors. A man in a white coat was checking the boxes off against a list, his expression so serious he might have been in charge of delivering chests of gold bullion. Rather than interrupt, Miriam hung back and waited for him to finish.

  “That’s everything, then,” he said to the waiting driver a good fifteen minutes later, once the last of the boxes had been placed in the lorry. “Off you go.”

  Before the man could vanish inside, Miriam came forward. “Excuse me.”

  “Yes? What do you want?” He looked her up and down, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow. “The salesroom entrance is on Bruton Street,” he offered in a marginally more courteous tone.

  “I would like to see your head of embroidery.”

  The frown returned. “For what reason?”

  “I wish to seek employment. I have with me a reference from Monsieur Christian—”

  “You’ll have to go through the usual channels.”

  “Very well,” she said, her patience fraying. “What are they?”

  “Buggered if I know, but they don’t involve letting in strangers off the street.” With that he darted through the door and pulled it shut behind him.

  Panic bloomed in her throat, her heart, her mind. What to do, what to do, what to do? She had come to the end of Monsieur Dior’s list. There was nowhere else to go. She was trained for nothing else.

  She spun around, ready to flee, and caught sight of her reflection in a window. The man in the white coat had thought she was one of Monsieur Hartnell’s customers. Only for a moment, but it might be enough.

  She walked to the end of Bruton Place, turned the corner, then doubled back along Bruton Street itself. She held her head high. Straightened her spine. Remembered how she had managed such moments before. If she could keep her cool when presenting false identification to the Milice, she could maintain a veneer of serenity when entering the front door of a London dress designer. This she could do.

  The entrance was a grand affair of green malachite and sparkling glass, the equal to anything one might see on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. A footman appeared silently, ushering her inside, and she paused, forcing herself to stand very still as she took the measure of the space. Modern, she thought. Cool and elegant and masterfully restrained. Nearly every vertical plane was mirrored; the few bare walls were painted in the cool gray-green of young lavender leaves.

  A woman came forward, beautifully dressed, her welcoming smile radiating sincerity. “Good morning. How may I help you?”

  “Good morning. I am here to see Monsieur Hartnell.”

  The woman’s eyes widened fractionally, but her smile did not waver. “Of course. If I might first—”

  “I am Mademoiselle Dassin. My friend, Monsieur Christian Dior, told me I must pay Monsieur Hartnell a visit upon my arrival in England.” Not quite the truth, but not precisely a lie.

  “Ah. I see.” The woman’s eyes darted toward the stairs.

  “Shall we?” Miriam asked, and without waiting for an answer, she set off across the foyer.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Miss, ah . . .”

  “Dassin.”

  “Yes. Miss Dassin. If you could perhaps wait while I speak to his secretary, then I—”

  Miriam began to ascend the stairs. “I do not mind waiting.”

  “If I could perhaps trouble you to take a seat down—”

  “It is quite all right. I am certain he will wish to see me.”

  As they reached the first floor, the woman slipped past Miriam, walking as quickly as her high heels would allow. “I really do need to speak with Mrs. Price and let her— Oh, my goodness.”

  They stood at the door of an office. One glance told Miriam it was empty. “Madame Price does not appear to be at her desk.”

  “No, she isn’t. If you could please wait here while I find her?”

  “Of course.”

  On the far side of Mrs. Price’s office, which was actually an anteroom, a door stood open. A man was speaking on the telephone, and though she knew it would be best to stay where she was, Miriam found herself inching toward the door.

  A sign hung on the wall nearby: NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS DOOR EXCEPT BY EXPRESS PERMISSION OF MRS. PRICE.

  She was certain, now, that Monsieur Hartnell was on the other side of that door. He had finished his telephone call; it would not be entirely beyond the pale to knock and ask for admittance. If she waited for permission, Mrs. Price might decide to let her in. Or she might just as easily have Miriam escorted out.

  This was her chance. Her only chance. She knocked on the door.

  A man was sitting at an enormous desk, a smoldering cigarette in his left hand, a pencil in the other. He was in his late forties, she supposed, with reddish hair that had gone white at his temples, and his suit was beautifully tailored.

  “Hello? Monsieur Hartnell?” she asked.

  “Hello,” he said, and he smiled when he saw her at the door. “What a lovely ensemble.”

  “Thank you. I beg your pardon, but your Mrs. Price is not at her desk.”

  “I see. Will you come in? Do sit down.”

  She advanced into the room, which was every bit as elegant as the rest of the premises, and perched on the edge of the chair he indicated. “My name is Miriam Dassin and I am an embroiderer, most recently at Maison Rébé. I also have a letter of recommendation from Monsieur Christian Dior.”

  She opened her portfolio, relieved that her hands were steady, and
handed him the letter. Only after he had accepted it did she realize he might not understand French. But as she watched him read, marking the changes of expression on his face, she felt certain that he was able to make out the general tenor of its words.

  “A warm introduction indeed.”

  “I also have some examples of my work, if you . . . ?”

  “I should be delighted to see them.”

  She had bound them into a folder, the edges of each piece carefully whipstitched, and as he looked through the samples, his cigarette held well clear, inspecting the front and back of each, she found herself holding her breath. So close, so close. He seemed to understand and appreciate what she had done, but was it enough?

  “You are an exceptionally talented embroiderer, Miss Dassin. This is marvelous work. I’d be a fool to send you away.”

  The vise of fear around her chest, so omnipresent she’d almost forgotten it, loosened a fraction.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Hartnell. I—”

  “Mrs. Price!” he called.

  A middle-aged woman, short and stoutly corseted, came to the door.

  “Yes, Mr. Hartnell?”

  “Could you ring down to Miss Duley? Ask her to come up? I have someone new for her.”

  Miriam very badly wanted to say something, but what if she stumbled over her English? Said something that made him reconsider? So she sat where she was, her back ramrod straight, and watched as he looked through her samples again, nodding his head from time to time, all the while puffing on his cigarette.

  Mrs. Price had returned. “I just spoke with her. Says she can’t come up just yet. Something to do with a pair of scissors left on a frame?”

  “Oh, very well. We’ll just have to beard the dragon in her den.” He handed the samples back to Miriam, then stood, stubbed out his cigarette in a heavy crystal ashtray, and came around the desk. “If you don’t mind bringing along your things, Miss Dassin, I’ll lead the way.”

  The Hartnell premises were a series of buildings that had been joined together in an almost haphazard fashion, and after going along several corridors, then up and down at least three sets of stairs, Miriam was completely turned around. At last they came to a heavy metal door, its paint flaking away in spots. Monsieur Hartnell hauled it open and waved her through.